Too Close
by Miss Mockingjay
Summary: A Moriadler one-shoot It's the night before Moriarty solves his Final Problem once and for all, and he needs a distraction from the impending end. The Woman is the only one he has left. But could one last night really be enough for him, after all he is so changeable? Rated M because these two are never going to behave.


Stepping into the elevator Jim Moriarty heard he phone buzz for the sixth time that day. He rolled his dark eyes at the screen, another terrorist offering to make him rich for the master code. After years of playing these games it still amused and annoyed him how these people just didn't get it. He didn't want anything, he just to pull their strings and watch them dance, but he'd seen all their routines now, even Sherlock's. Deleting the message he turned off his phone, no more interruptions, not while he was with her. He hadn't seen her since she'd returned Pakistan and she hadn't called him, though he didn't hold it against her. She moved around has much as him these days, but finding her hadn't been too difficult, nothing was too difficult for the great Moriarty. Just before he reached the top floor he sneaked a glance at his reflection in the sliver doors. It smiled at him, smoothing down his best black Westwood suit. He had to look his best for his favourite distraction.

Finally reaching the door to penthouse suite he noticed a red 'Do Not Disturb Sign' hanging on the door handle. Whipping it off and flinging it down the corridor he rapped on the wood three times.

"Can't you read?" Came an irritated voice from the other side; her voice. His smile widening into grin as he heard it he knocked louder. "I'll be going out soon; you can clean the room then."

"Going out without me? Where's the fun in that?" He whined in that sing-song voice of his.

There was a long pause that not even Jim could read. Was she angry at him for coming unannounced? Or maybe she didn't recognise his voice? That felt worse; at least there was still care in anger. His chest tensed nervously at the awkward silence, he'd forgotten what nerves felt like and he didn't like this reminder. Just as he began to wonder why the Hell he'd come the door slowly opened.

Irene's wide misty grey eyes darted up and down his body before resting on his face, confirming he was real. She was wearing a sheer mid-length black dress, with lace detailing around the waist and bust. Her dark hair was free of its usual style, and she must've been halfway through her makeup when he arrived because all she had was a little eyeliner. He stared at her lips, slightly parted in surprise, looking light and delicate without her signature red lipstick. As he did they curled into a smile.

"Well, if it isn't Jim Moriarty. Congratulations on the acquittal, what did you do to the jury?" The Woman said smoothly, hiding her initial shock well.

"Just said if they wanted to see their families again they'll let me go." He shrugged, his mischievous grin returning. A year after their last meeting and that's her first question, no 'where were you' or 'what are you doing here'. That's why he liked her; she got straight to the interesting part.

"Is that all, No hidden bombs or clever tricks?" She teased sounding disappointment.

"Never underestimate a bit of good old fashioned blackmail Miss Adler. You of all people should know how useful it can be." He retorted slipping his hands into his pockets and moving a step closer, only a couple of inches from her now. Close enough to smell her perfume; it was different to the one she'd been wearing last year.

"Touché Mr Moriarty. Although I don't misbehave any more, I'm trying to be good a girl after that little incident in Pakistan." Her fingers brushed across her neck as if remembering the chill of steel pressing against it.

"Is that why you haven't called?" His tone went a shade darker. He had a good idea who'd helped her escape. The Great Detective had been a shadow trailing him for too long and he certainly didn't want him sitting in the corner with him and Irene tonight. If he were talking to anyone else their blood would've congealed in their veins at this sudden change in his voice. But The Woman stared into his dark eyes defiantly, manicured nails placed firmly round her gorgeous curves.

"You haven't texted," she reminded him with a raised eyebrow, many questions embedded in the fine black line. But he didn't have the time or patience to answer them all.

"I've been busy planning the Crime of the Century." He said as he slid past her into the penthouse suite. Irene didn't protest, following him as if it was as much his as hers, it was certainly his style. Rich dark woods, red panelling, elegant furniture, and a view of the glowing London skyline. The Woman was never on a budget even in hiding, another thing he liked about her.

"I know; I saw it on the news. It was so clever…so wicked of you. You look almost as good in a crown as you do in handcuffs" That deliciously devilish smile danced across her lips. Oh, how he'd missed it, seductively beckoning him into danger, heating any room instantly. Before he could think he was by her side again, his hands on her waist, the temperate around them soaring.

"Though not as good as you. It's such a pity you're going out tonight. If you weren't such a good girl now I'd ask for a scolding." He murmured, mouth brushing her ear. She touched his cheek, drawing his eyes back to hers, so close he could see sparks of lighting dancing in the cloudy grey.

"You're not the only one who's changeable, Mr Sex." She whispered, her nickname for him making him pull her closer, crushing his lips into hers.

Her body relaxed in his embrace, wrapping her hands round his neck as she kissed him back just as hungrily. After they broke for air she bit his lip softly. He responded by running his tongue along her teeth, making their lips meet again with a deep sigh from Irene which Jim echoed. This is what he'd missed, this burning rush that came with her touch and taste, the sparks of electricity that shot up his hands every time his fingers brushed her hot skin. By then they'd stroked up her back and were tugging on the zip of her dress now, palm caressing her shoulder on the way back down. But she pushed him away.

"Not so fast you naughty boy. I though you wanted to be punished." Her fair skin was flushed and her breaths were short and shallow, but her sensuous purr was in full force, quick to assume to control. Once a Dominatrix…

"Still got the riding crop? Oh, you bad girl. Maybe it's you who needs scolding." He grinned as he slipped his jacket off and unbuttoned his shirt, watching her curved form slink away from him to the room's safe. A moment later she returned, carrying the very whip in her hand.

Laughing he went to grab it, only to be struck across the hand.

"I bring the pain here Mr Sex! Try that again and I'll have to make you beg for mercy twice." She threatened tracing a line with the tip from his cheekbone to his chest.

"I'll love to see you try," he flirted backing into the bedroom. His teasing was met with a blow across the torso, making him wince at its sweet sting.

"Just take your clothes off and take your beating like a man," she ordered slamming the door behind them.

Sunlight reached through the cracks in the curtains, clawing Jim out of his sleep. As he reluctantly stirred he felt the warmth of Irene's arms and legs wound round his bare skin, and her slumbering breaths on his neck. The bedroom was a mess, their clothes strewn across the floor and furniture knocked out of place. Looking at the destruction the pain marking the riding crop's kisses returned. But it was a good pain; a throbbing ache that told him what had happened was real. She'd kissed him like she wasn't afraid, looked at him in ways that made him feel…wanted. When was the last time he'd felt truly wanted?

The legs wrapped around his waist shifted as a hand came up to his face.

"I thought you'd be gone by now. Haven't you got a big bad world to run?" Irene murmured; turning his face to study his expression through half close eyes, an eyebrow lazily raised.

Jim felt as if she'd whipped him again, sending a cold sting of realisation shooting right through him. He wasn't running the big bad world today: he was leaving it. This was it, the day he'd planned for months, the day he completed his story like every good tragedy: with the death of hero. Before the thought of leaving this boring world with a literal bang as Sherlock fell excited him. But that meant leaving those arms wrapped around him, those misty grey eyes that were looking so intently at him. Now all he felt was dread…and fear.

No! He was Jim Moriarty, the world's only Consulting Criminal. He did not fear. Fear was for the ordinary, a chemical found in the weak.

"Jim?" Irene's eyes fully opened as she adjusted her position to lift her head up. Her tangled dark hair swept across her naked shoulders, Jim tried to block out the memory of running his fingers through it.

"Your right Miss Adler, I should be gone now. Big day today." He disentangled himself from her and slid out of bed, a chill meeting the exposed flesh where her body had pressed against him.

"Off to cause more trouble? I thought I'd taught you a lesson last night. Do you want me to teach it to you again?" She purred.

"No!" He snapped suddenly. God did that woman ever stop flirting! What was so special about her anyway, why did she make him feel so weak, so longing, so…human?

He didn't care about her, not really. The only reason he'd been thinking about her for months was that he missed their little games. That's what he'd been longing for when he came. The purpose of that last night was to finish that little chapter, which he had. There should be no reason for his desire to just roll back into bed and pretend it was anything more. That's what he told himself as he threw his shirt back on, staring intently at the buttons to avoid looking at her.

"Jim, why did you really come?" She asked, the concern in her voice hurting more than her riding crop.

"To say goodbye," He answered coldly.

"What?"

"Don't get me wrong Miss Adler, it's been a pleasure. I need distractions and you were the best. They say opposites attract but that's not true, likeness does, and we're so alike you and I. Except you're ordinary. " He repeated what he'd said to Sherlock as a matter of fact because it was, the difference being she hadn't shown it yet. But she would eventually; they always disappointed him in the end.

"I don't think so, the way I made you beg for mercy shows that." Although her words where flirty the play had gone from her voice, replaced by an undertone of hurt Jim tried to ignore.

"Yes you are, you all are, that's why no one ever gets to me, and they never will. You came closest though, so you could say you beat Sherlock after all." He risked a cruel grin in her direction as he buckled his belt. It was ripped from his face by The Woman's steely stare.

"No, they don't get to you because you won't let them. That way they never get close enough to see you're anything more than a psychopathic genius. No one can see how lonely you are, why you need them as distractions in the first place," the edge in her voice was like a razor blade, as if determined to leave some mark on him other than the bruises on his body. "See, you and Sherlock aren't the only ones who observe, Moriarty."

Right then Jim wanted to kill her, to put the light out of those beautiful eyes that saw right through him. He'd done it to so many others for much less. But the only weapon he could bring himself to use was idle threat.

"Tell anyone about our time together and I'll find you and-"

"You will skin me, and turn me into shoes, yes I know," she dared to sneer at his words. "Just make sure they're Louboutins."

With that she jumped out of bed, ignoring Jim drinking in his last look at her naked form, and pulled on a silky black dressing gown. When she turned back the hurt on her face had frozen into icy contempt. She really was like him, never letting emotion get the best of her. It should've made it easier for Jim to walk away then, but he found he couldn't. Why did he have to be so God damn changeable!

"Will you miss me, Irene?" He asked after a cold silence, saying her name for the first time that morning, leaving a bittersweet taste in his mouth. It was meant to sound teasing, but instead it came out quietly sober.

"Just get out," she hissed. When he failed to move she grabbed the riding crop from the bedside table, holding it threateningly like a knife. "Get out!"

"Irene please, let's not-" He was cut short by vicious sting across his cheek.

"Now!" She ordered so fiercely he immediately obeyed; only turning when he reached the suite door.

She stood defiantly before him with the weapon in her hand, dark hair wild and eyes the colour of rain clouds, so strong and beautiful. Every inch The Woman.

"This is how I want you to remember me, James Moriarty: the woman who got too close. _You_ will miss _me_."

"I think I will," Jim surrendered one moment of honesty for her, packaging it in a weak smile before finally leaving.

Staring across London from the roof of St Bart's Jim found it was true. He'd ended it only three hours ago and he was already wishing she was there, playing their flirty games to take his mind off the impending end. Oh well, he wouldn't have to think about that for long, he wouldn't have to think about anything for long. He felt the gun nestling in his jacket; at least he had the surprise on Sherlock's face to look forward to. His little game with the Great Detective had been fun, the best fun he'd had in ages, even if it proved so disappointedly easy. He'd seen Sherlock glance at his fingers at Baker Street; his nemesis really thought the code he was tapping was real. He shook his head at the skyline. Oh Sherlock, poor ordinary Sherlock, he'll be so unhappy when he tells him that. But not as unhappy as when he ends their final problem. He was doing him a favour really, all those little people scuttling around them, gawking at their genius like dumbstruck goldfish. It would've driven him mad eventually, just as it had driven Jim mad.

His bruises from the night before hissed as he shifted position, they didn't feel so good now. He rubbed the spot where Irene had hit him in the face, although it had already faded it still hurt more than the others. She and Sherlock had been the only people to stand as his equals, and soon he'd have neither of them. He'd never felt more alone.

A deeply sensuous moan interrupted his dark thoughts: Irene's text alert! Nearly ripping it out of his pocket he gazed down at it intently.

_Of course I'll miss you, Mr Sex._

He could almost hear her smooth mischievous voice in his hear as he read it, bringing a melancholy smile to his lips. Sitting on the ledge he read it again as he played Stayin' Alive, ready to end his story.


End file.
